Smoking Gun - chapter 2
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: Follow-on. Doyle is left alone with his thoughts and his guilt


Doyle had been saddened by the sight of Reynolds' corpse. He was a colleague of Doyle's. Not much liked by him, but dead all the same. Reynolds had found a bullet with his name on it and Doyle had been close by when it had found him. There was nothing Doyle could have done to save Reynolds' life. He had died instantly, but Doyle still knelt by his dead colleague's side, holding his hand, and feeling as guilty as hell.

Eventually the ambulance arrived and Cowley with it. In tow were CI5 forensics and a couple of colleagues. Cowley didn't allow the ambulance crew upstairs till CI5 had surveyed the scene (and hidden anything from view that they didn't want 'civilians' to see). Doyle waited for them at the top of the stairs of a very ordinary town house. He warned them that there was a trip wire in the bathroom and to be careful in case there were other surprises in any of the other rooms. Cowley took this in but said nothing as he and the others pushed passed him. Cowley took a cursory glance in each room, remaining on the threshold. His view of the final room where Reynolds lay took a little longer, but cursory all the same. Cowley would jump to no conclusions. Satisfied that his operatives had the matter in hand he pushed Doyle towards the stairs. Doyle pattered down and dutifully waited to be shown where to go next. Cowley noted his agent's unusual docility. He also noted that Doyle didn't seem to be injured. So that at least was one less problem for him to worry about. He led his operative to the living room and pushed him onto the couch. He left then to check the downstairs rooms and glanced into the back garden. Finding nothing to grab his attention, he then returned to the lounge and sat opposite his agent. Doyle looked into Cowley's eyes and said simply.

"I'm sorry. I'd like to be the one to tell McLeod, sir." McLeod was Reynolds' partner. Doyle had interrupted their surveillance op to drag one of them along with him to a rendez-vous, Bodie being unavailable at the time. It was the hapless Reynolds who had been given the job of temporary nursemaid to Doyle's meeting.

"Later," Cowley said. He knew his operative was in shock, but he needed to understand what had happened.

Doyle gathered himself with an effort. He explained that he had a call from a snout, Brownie, to this address. Doyle had sensed a trap and had called for help. Reynolds had gone with him. This was the result. Cowley knew what Doyle was thinking - (a) this was his fault, and (b) it could so easily have been Bodie they were scraping up from the bedroom carpet.

"Who was the sniper?" Cowley asked when he'd assimilated all the information.

"Carl Box. I helped to put his brother away. Couldn't nail Carl, but I never had him - or the family - down as heavies like this."

"There's promotion on all sides, Doyle. Besides, he'd taken out insurance."

Doyle looked confused.

"Even a fairground punter couldn't miss a target with a dum-dum bullet at close range."

Doyle nodded sadly as this new thought seeped in.

"Do you think that Brownie was leading you into a trap like last time?"

"He was very nervous on the phone, which had me nervous. Bodie wasn't around - thank God - so poor Reynolds got nailed instead."

Cowley said nothing and waited for more.

"I drove Reynolds over here. We knocked on the door. There was no reply so we came in and called out for anybody to hear us. Still nothing, so we crept about. No-one downstairs. We headed upstairs. I took one bedroom; Reynolds the other." Doyle hung his head at the result of that action. Still Cowley waited. Doyle's reaction was predictable. "That bullet was meant for me, sir. It was me who sent Box's brother down, not Reynolds."

"At a guess, Doyle, I would think that any 'cop' would do for Box. If it was you, that was a bonus, if not … well, he still has his revenge. I'm also guessing that it was you who killed him."

"Reynolds took a shot at him, and I finished him off."

"He was well enough to take an aim at you then?"

"Yeah. I got to him first." There was no pride in Doyle's dead voice.

Having got as much as he could from his agent, Cowley told him to go and find McLeod.

"Take over surveillance there. I'll get relief for you as soon as I can and McLeod can meet me at the hospital."

As Doyle trotted off, Cowley radioed for a couple of agents to find Brownie. He wanted a 'wee word' with him.

Doyle entered the empty flat that Reynolds and McLeod were using for a surveillance operation. He crept in unannounced as he had done before.

"McLeod," Doyle said to the figure at the window. The agent jumped a foot in the air as last time. This time though, the joke held no satisfaction for Doyle. His face was stone. McLeod sensed a tenseness in the man as silence fell between them.

"Reynolds is dead, Mac. I'm sorry," Doyle announced quietly.

McLeod continued to stare at him. Into the silence, Doyle explained dully what had happened. McLeod sat down as he listened to the story. He didn't invite Doyle to join him.

"We've never got on Mac, the three of us. You know that. I won't pretend. But God knows, I never wanted this to happen. If I'd thought … Well, I did think. There could have been a gunman lurking, and there was. That's why I wanted backup. It was … I mean …" But Doyle didn't know what he meant, and was aware that he was babbling so he ground to a halt.

"You're right, Ray," McLeod said eventually as the news sunk in. He lit another cheroot. "You, me, Frank, we were never best of buddies." McLeod, too, ground to a halt and seemed to be trying to come to a decision. Eventually he invited Doyle to sit. Doyle was about to tell him to go to the hospital but McLeod started again.

"See, the thing is, Ray, I never liked Reynolds either. But I didn't want the bugger to die. Of course not. CI5 is one small, happy bloody family. But, like any family, we don't all of us get on with everyone else. There are squabbles and rivalries." In other circumstances, Doyle would have railed at being patronised but said nothing. "I wanted to do this alone, but Cowley wouldn't let me." Doyle knew that Bodie had wanted the same thing when he'd been first paired with Doyle. "But be careful of what you wish for, son," McLeod warned. "Reynolds and I have - had - been a partnership for nearly two years now and I can't say that in that time I'd warmed to him, nor him to me. I don't know how it is with you and Bodie. Perhaps you hate the sight of each other, I don't know - that isn't how it looks when the pair of you are in the Mess or out with the lads - but that could all be an act. I'm not fishing, Ray, I don't want to know, but I couldn't wait for the day to end when I'd been with Frank. Being holed up here for days on end doesn't exactly help!"

Doyle managed a small smile. "Even a fine romance couldn't blossom in these conditions," he agreed shyly, glancing round the grimy bedsit.

"Too right," McLeod agreed, pleased that Doyle was following his line of thought. "But, of course, it wasn't one-sided. He couldn't stand me either: my smoking, my sense of humour - rather coarse I'm afraid - or my aftershave. You name it. We both lobbied Cowley for another partner but he's a bit of a sadist."

"I had noticed," Doyle murmured softly.

"Perhaps he'll let me be now."

"Early days yet, Mac. But Cowley does want to see you at the hospital. I'll take over here till Cowley gets relief for me."

_Cowley's not only a sadist_, McLeod thought anxiously, _but also a bad psychiatrist. This bloke's had a shock and the last thing he needs is to be holed up here alone with his thoughts_. However, orders were orders and McLeod got up to leave.

"I hope it won't be too long, Ray," he said sincerely, collecting his jacket.

"Thanks for taking this so well, Mac. Despite everything you've said, I'm still sorry."

"I know you are, mate, I know you are." He patted Doyle's shoulder as he headed for the door.

Doyle had never considered McLeod to be a human being, but perhaps there was something decent lurking under the skin after all.

"Tell me about the op," Doyle said, log sheet in hand, before McLeod left. He suddenly realised that he needed to know who or what he was watching, and why.

"Oh, nothing much. You're watching the flat above the grocer's. No-one's been near for the past couple of days."

Doyle had been glancing at the log sheet under the inadequate glow of the street lamp.

"What about that tramp there?" Doyle queried, peering out of the window, the binoculars forgotten for the moment.

"Oh, him. A tramp's not worth worrying about. You'll be telling me to write down every dog that pees on a lamp-post next."

Diligent Doyle thought that any tramp, child or nun should be noted but said nothing. Now was certainly not the time to chide McLeod for sloppy work.

"Just for interest, though, how often does the tramp come around?"

"Who knows if it's the same one? All I can say is that a beggar comes round every so often - and, no, I don't know how often that is or what his favourite tipple is."

Doyle could hear the anger rising, but he needed to know. McLeod lit another cheroot.

"What does he do?"

"What the hell do you mean 'what does he do?' " McLeod's voice was rising to a dangerous level as this flat was meant to be unoccupied.

"Does he look in the bins; chat with anyone?"

"Christ, no wonder Reynolds thought you were a right prig. It's about the only thing we agreed on."

With that accolade hanging in the air, McLeod stormed out as quietly as he could given his anger - which was too loud in Doyle's opinion. He sighed and ran his fingers several times through his hair and tried not to sort his feelings out.

Over the next several hours, Doyle tried hard to block off what had happened, and McLeod's valedictory. Doyle concluded that McLeod was right - he was a right sod. He'd failed to save Reynolds and then went on to question his partner's professionalism. However, his grim thoughts didn't stop Doyle noting the tramp's movements and noting that, from this angle, he didn't know whether it was the same tramp or not. To diligent Doyle, the dosser was a question mark. The man loitered at the door which led up to the flat he was watching. He could of course have been urinating; marking his territory as a dog does. He could equally be posting something through the letterbox, or even talking to someone through the letterbox. Doyle made notes and continued watching.

It was next morning before relief arrived. Doyle was struggling to keep awake. He'd paced the floor and even done press ups to try to keep alert. The adrenaline keeping him moving through the hours after Reynolds' death had long since worn away, leaving him empty and depressed. He'd left the window open a crack to let in some fresh air - but the air was damp and frigid. The smell of cheroots still lingered like a bad memory. The radio eventually crackled into life and the operator told him to expect a couple of CI5 agents to relieve him. He was in the hallway the moment he heard a tentative and gentle knocking on the door. He let one in and waited the requisite two minutes for the second knock. Once they were both in, they made introductions. It turned out that they were cadets and had been newly paired. From these initial greetings Doyle concluded that they either didn't know what had happened yesterday, or were being very diplomatic. Doyle told them about his reservations concerning the tramp, but had seen nothing else suspicious.

"Note down everything," Doyle instructed, "and I'd like one of you to go down at some point and see what the tramp is doing at the door. Don't cross the road to the tramp's side. I want no contact and nothing to make him suspicious. If you can't see what he's doing, then leave it. Don't compromise yourselves."

He looked at each one in turn. The message had been received and there was a mumbled "Yes, sir," from each of them.

Doyle left them to it and wanted nothing more than to go home to bed and sweet oblivion, but felt it a duty to go to Cowley instead. He was told that the Cow was in the Mess Room. _That should cheer up the troops_, Doyle thought mutinously to himself. However, Cowley wasn't there and Doyle was greeted instead by two pairs of eyes gazing at him with pity.

"We're sorry, Ray," Withens started off.

"Is there anything we can do?" asked his partner, Collins.

Pity and sympathy were the last thing Doyle wanted. What he did want was a cup of tea - the cold dregs several hours ago had long since worked their way through his system - but he wasn't going to stay here a moment longer in this cloying atmosphere. He turned to leave but Bodie marched in before he got to the door.

"Jesus Christ!" the pair said in unison as Bodie walked in. They'd risen so fast that their chairs clattered to the ground in tandem, their mouths in open amazement.

Doyle turned back to them. They looked as though they'd seen a ghost. Bodie turned to Doyle for an explanation. But a pair of very confused and blood-shot eyes gazed back at him.

Getting no answers from his partner, Bodie demanded, "What the hell's up with you two?"

"We, we'd heard," Withens turned to Collins for support. Getting none, he continued, "We'd heard that you'd been killed, Bodie."

"Pays not to listen to rumours then, doesn't it?" Bodie said dryly.

"I thought we _were_ paid to listen to rumours," Collins countered. He wasn't Bodie's biggest fan.

Bodie sighed in frustration.

"Sit down," Doyle ordered. The command seemed to include all of them. Doyle relayed his story. He felt very weary. He didn't add that he'd spent the rest of the night - and morning - gazing out of a window following a tramp's every movement (and nothing much else moving except a milk float - also dutifully noted).

"So it wasn't your partner then, but McLeod's," Collins concluded.

"Well done," Bodie said sarcastically, "give the guy a banana."

Doyle wasn't in the mood for bar room politics and got up to find Cowley again. Bodie knew Doyle's nature, and he certainly knew his body language. The guilt was pouring off him. So was his body odour. Bodie's delicate nose had detected that Ray needed a bit of TLC. And a shower wouldn't go amiss either!

Doyle knocked on Cowley's door and was relieved to hear a "Come in" barked querulously. He nodded perfunctorily when Doyle entered and ordered him to sit. It was clear, even to Cowley, that his operative was exhausted. He was also gaunt and unshaven.

"I know you're tired, lad, but I want you to go over it again."

Doyle sighed, but knew that the order would come. As Cowley made tea, gratefully accepted, Doyle recited events again. Cowley was weighing his agent's words against what he had now found out from Brownie and others. Cowley noticed Doyle's thirst and plied him with another cup.

"Have you eaten, lad?"

Doyle wondered when that was meant to have happened. He could hardly order a take-away at his observation post. He simply shook his head. He then related his observations.

"McLeod didn't mention this tramp when I asked him about his surveillance while we were at the hospital."

"Well he would be in shock, sir," Doyle explained loyally, "You might not have had his full attention in view what happened."

Cowley nodded but Doyle knew that his boss would be reading the log sheets in due course and there would be a singular lack of tramp-spotting from McLeod. Well, that was something for him and the Cow to chew over. Doyle would keep out of that one.

"Go home, lad. I don't want to see you till Monday."

Doyle heard no censure in his boss's voice and muttered his thanks. He was surprised to see Bodie lurking in the corridor as he left the office. Bodie peeled himself off the wall.

"All right?" he queried anxiously.

Doyle shrugged. "What's up?" It was his turn to ask.

"Oh, a small matter of my mate nearly getting his head blown off, that's all," Bodie said lightly as they made their way down the stairs.

Doyle said nothing and allowed his partner to take him home. He was asleep before they reached Bodie's apartment. When he woke, he turned a confused face to his friend as he switched the engine off.

"You're staying with me for a few days. I hope the Old Man has given you time off to have a shower at least."

"Sorry about the stink," Doyle murmured.

Bodie said nothing and let him into his apartment. Doyle headed straight for the bathroom. Bodie checked that the spare bed was made up and set about getting lunch together. Doyle came out of the bathroom looking a lot better, but exhausted all the same.

"Eat up and tell me all," Bodie ordered as he put sandwiches and a glass of orange juice in front of his guest. He knew that his friend had only outlined the bare facts in front of the other operatives.

"I've told you," Doyle said moodily with his mouth full.

It was clear to Bodie that Doyle hadn't eaten for some time.

"Yeah. The abridged version. I want the unabridged version."

"I'm too tired."

"Have you seen McLeod?"

Doyle's recital in the Mess had ended with the shootout and no further.

"Yeah. I told Cowley that I wanted to be the one to break the news."

"Bad?"

Doyle looked at his mate for a while, weighing up what to tell him. He knew Bodie to be discreet, but it wasn't anyone's business. He made his decision.

"Turns out that McLeod and Reynolds didn't get on. As you know, they're not my favourite people but, God knows, neither of us wanted this."

It was the first emotion Bodie had heard from his friend. He waited. Doyle went over it all again. He looked drained. Bodie wanted to let his friend go to bed, but here was a boil that needed to be lanced.

"I held his hand, Bodie, but I knew he was gone. The poor bugger didn't stand a chance."

"What was he hit with?"

"A bloody dum-dum."

It wasn't often that Doyle could shock his partner. Bodie whistled through his teeth. "At point-blank range." It was more of a statement than a question. Doyle nodded. "You don't get up from one of those," Bodie whispered more to himself than to Doyle.

"Cowley says that since Box wasn't known to play with guns, he probably got hold of that to make sure of the job. And that job was me, Bodie."

"I wondered when you'd get round to that," his friend commented astutely.

"Well, it was me who put his brother away."

"That doesn't give him a right to blast a hole in your chest - or anyone else's."

Doyle knew him - and Cowley - to be right.

"So where have you been since then?"

Doyle told him.

"So Cowley leaves you alone with your thoughts all night. That's clever isn't it?" Bodie snarled angrily.

"He may have been trying to work out how suicidal I was."

Bodie wasn't sure if that was a sick joke. "Did he give you a rope and a knife, then?"

"Didn't need to. I still have my gun remember."

Bodie didn't like the way this conversation was going. "Look, Ray. This could have happened to anyone." Bodie knew this was a very thin argument. It hadn't worked the last time he'd used it. Doyle ignored him.

"You know what I was thinking as I held Reynolds' hand? It could have been you. If you hadn't been on another assignment, Bodie, it would have been you with your chest missing."

"I know, mate. But I'm here and I'm alive and glad of it. And you're here and I'm glad of that too." He looked sincerely into Doyle's eyes with such intensity that Doyle had to look away.

"Yeah, love you too," Doyle joked shyly, and slunk off the chair to bed.

"Sleep well," Bodie whispered to Doyle's retreating back.

5


End file.
